A touch doesn’t ask for words.

It is illiterate but not mute.

It sings between two people

and asks only to be heard.

I press my ear to your seashell chest,

and I think I hear the ocean.

You,

pulling towards me

pushing away.

Stranger, you once were,

I am drifting in your waters.

You seem to know how to rock me to sleep

and make me forget that we have no memories of each other.

Tomorrow,

I will be drowning.

A month later,

I will taste the linger of salt on my lips

A year later,

you will be a watermark on the pages of my skin.

faint

distant

We’re all running from some hurt, or pain that is rapidly engulfing our lives like some sick, relentless cancer.

And we numb ourselves with drugs. Legal, or illegal. Prescription, or non-prescription. We use these escapes to try to find piece of mind.

Some people can do that, pick their lives up, and keep going. Some people can live within the lines, within the lies, and just be.

But that’s the thing with depression.

There is no “keep going,” there is no “pulling yourself up.” You lose time. You lose whole days. You lose emotion, and feeling.

You are a zombie to sadness, and the thing you’re running from is the same thing holding you in place.

It’s a sick kind of sadness you get used to.

And soon sober becomes a scary impossibility. How on earth could we live in this world without a sense of numbness, a sense of clarity?

Who would want anything to feel more real, more fucked up than it already is?

So I guess, if someone asked me what it felt like to be depressed I would tell them exactly this:

it feels like teaching yourself to walk all over again,